Sherlock's Zit
by Take A Bite Of My Heart
Summary: Pimples. Even the world's only consulting detective gets them.


Now, everyone can relate to this: zits. Pimples, blemishes, blackhead, whitehead, all of these words that make us feel better when a giant red dot appears on our poor face. We're reduced to concealer, to popping it, to putting crack-pot potions and lotions on that pimple. Everyone's had to deal with them: due to stress, to hormones, or just touching your face. Everyone has dealt with zits. Including Sherlock.

It was one of those days. By days, I mean the sort of giant day that could meld into several days until several weeks until several years. Sherlock had lost count of the days he'd been staring at the room. He could give a description of the pop-corn ceiling right down to the last plaster molecule. He'd been bored. There'd been no cases, at least, interesting ones, and he'd been reduced to staring at the ceiling. Sherlock stretched his arm over to the coffee table, then, after groping about for a few moments, let it drop back down again. A combined effort of Mrs. Hudson and John had resulted in all guns, knives, sharp pens, bows and arrows, daggers, riding crops, and anything else remotely interesting to be locked up in a safe. Unfortunately, it was the key safe, not the combination lock. It would have taken him minutes to get back his toys. But, alas, John was too smart for that. Bored. At this moment, Sherlock quite wanted to break something heavy and it would be a plus if it was expensive. But, there wasn't anything interesting to do. Out there. In the 'world'. The door turned. It was John. Sherlock didn't bother looking, he knew John's schedule by now and observed Mrs. Hudson had already taken her tea. The door slammed, then something unexpected: a sigh.

"Sherlock, you've been on the couch for two weeks already. Can't you go out? Get some air?"

Sherlock stilled the urge to roll his eyes.

"There's nothing of interest _there_." he drawled, barely moving anything.

John shook his head, trying to comprehend. Sherlock was trying to do the same thing. How could John be so excited to go shopping? Or go out with _her_? Or even be excited right now? Misery loves company, and Sherlock really wanted to drag someone down with him. John grabbed a paper from the table, and was about to throw it quite hard at Sherlock's face when he froze. An eyebrow arched.

"What?" Sherlock said impatiently.

John's hand flew up to his own forehead, a primal gesture that told the other person to do the same also. Sherlock raised a hand, then quite frankly was rather surprised. He stood upright, jumped off the couch, stepped over the coffee table, and walked quickly to the closest shiny surface. He started looking from his chin. Normal chin, normal nose, normal eyes, normal- what in the bloody hell was that? A red mark lay glaringly on his forehead, almost parading itself.

"What is that?" Sherlock said, utterly baffled.

John smirked slightly.

"A pimple. Didn't you get those when you were a kid?"

Sherlock frowned disapprovingly.

"No. I was too busy."

"Sherlock-" John began, paused, then thought the better of it.

John began to sort out the post. Bills, bills, bills, a letter from Harry, bills, bills, and other letter from Harry. Sherlock turned on his heel.

"Well?" John looked up, puzzled. "Well what?" Sherlock began angrily: "About this-this abomination!"

He pointed viciously towards his face. John would have laughed, but Sherlock seemed so adamant the he thought it was best not to josh around.

"Relax, it'll go away on it's own time, you'll see."

By now, Sherlock's mood had dissolved.

"I don't care about 'it's own time', I want it gone now." he grumbled angrily, and opened up John's laptop.

After a quick succession of typing, pauses, then typing again, Sherlock had officially deemed himself the expert on dermatological anomalies. Also known as, zits.

"Do we have any lemons?" Sherlock asked, calculation quickly some old recipe.

"What, now you're eating?" John said, almost in disbelief.

Sherlock scoffed. "Well?" "Cup-board, second door to the left, third shelf."

Sherlock rose and after foraging around, procured a lemon and a large knife. John refused to look. He knew it wouldn't end well. John's thoughts were confirmed after a moment, the a rather large commotion, something quite pointy slamming down, and the general sounds of things being broken.

"What happened?" John said, with the tone of someone that was expecting it.

"The-it-the...lemon!" Sherlock sputtered.

John sighed. This was not going to end well.


End file.
